“What?” asks Excelsior.
“Big son-of-a-bitch. Headed right for Miami.”
“Why don’t they evacuate?”
Gus flips through the binder. “I don’t know. It’s gotta be in here somewhere.”
“Let me see that,” says Excelsior. Instead of giving it to him, Gus throws it over this shoulder. He doesn’t want Excelsior to see himself referred to as ‘the asset.’
“Ah, it’s all bullshit anyway,” Gus says, bluffing his way through. “There’s only two things it could be. One, they screwed up and didn’t get the evacuation warning out in time. Or two, they’re so used to counting on you, they didn’t even bother to issue a warning. Either way. There’s two and half million people who are depending you.”
“Two and a half million,” Excelsior says, trying to get a handle on a number that large.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Gus, you know, I’ve never…”
“Ain’t no time to be bashful son. This is the time to get going. Those people need you.”
“But what if? I mean, what if…” Excelsior says, thinking back to flight 209.
Gus gives Excelsior a look. “You’re not going to let that happen.” Excelsior drops his head to his chest. Jesus Christ, thinks Gus, not again. “You HEAR me? You’re NOT going to let that happen.”
Excelsior picks his head up. “No. I’m not.”
Gus drops his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out. “Well, that’s it then. Get to it.”
Excelsior is gone in an instant.
Chapter Sixteen. Edwin Makes His Pitch
Edwin breathes in. He breathes out and tries to release the tension from his shoulders. It doesn’t work very well. The moment is upon him. Alabaster, who is Daniel, opens the large set of French doors that lead to the back of the property. The heat and humidity hit Edwin like a wet, sloppy fist.
In the distance Edwin sees that a pavilion of sorts had been erected. He hears the blare of a trumpet followed by cheering. Edwin looks to Alabaster/Daniel for some kind of context. Daniel just shakes his head. Edwin assumes that, once again, bad has gone to worse.
As they draw closer, Edwin sees that three teams of oiled boys are engaged in a pony race around a makeshift track. Iphagenia claps madly and squeals with delight as the young men jockey for position heading into the final corner. The number three team, commands the lead on the inside. But at a crucial moment, one of the contestants loses his footing. The resulting crash takes out all of the contestants before they reach the finish line. An unjudgeable heap of bodies lies in the middle of the track. At least one broken limb protrudes from the mass.
Ah, thinks Edwin, Disaster. The theme of his trip.
This catastrophe in no way diminishes Iphagenia’s enjoyment. She screams at the top of her leathery lungs and collapses onto her throne in a fit of hysterical laughter. She beckons a nearby slave-boy for something to drink. Edwin realizes that the figure seated next to her in a jester’s outfit is her son Eustace. As Edwin approaches he can see that Eustace is chained to his mother’s chair.
“Why Mister Windsor, how nice of you to join our little derby. Would you like me to run them for you again?”
Edwin looks at the boys picking themselves up off the ground. Several are bleeding. All of them have some kind of injury. They look exhausted. This dismal spectacle has surely gone on long enough.
“I don’t care for sporting events. I don’t enjoy leaving things to chance.”
Iphagenia laughs. “You are such a serious, serious man, Mr. Windsor. You should inject some levity into your existence. Enjoy each breath instead of merely sucking them in and out between your teeth.”
“I enjoy my work.”
“And how goes your work? Have you schemed a scheme for us?” The use of the royal pronoun is not lost on Edwin.
“I have.”
“Well, then by all means. The floor is yours to display our latest entertainment.”
Edwin coughs and motions to Daniel. “Daniel, my papers.”
“Daniel? Who ever are you talking to? Why Alabaster! Have you been speaking nonsense in this man’s presence.”
“No ma’am,” Alabaster says.
“Are you lying to me boy?” Daniel stiffens at the use of the word boy. He closes his eyes and sees a house high on a hill in Aruba and his anger subsides. “For that I shall have your paycheck flogged.”
Edwin clears his throat and speaks, “Madame, when I asked you if you had any powers or abilities you mentioned a lack of scruples—”
“Oh how true,” Iphagenia says, caressing a perfectly formed young boy who is holding her flagon of wine.
“—a considerable fortune, and boredom. But I have found that you have lied to me.”
“Did I really? Why, I’m sure I didn’t mean to.”
“Fear not. I shall not flog your paycheck over it. But a lie of omission is a lie all the same.” Edwin unfurls his map of power generating facilities in North America. “It would appear that you have effective control over 24 electric power facilities throughout Alabama, is that not so?”
“Yes, well, that’s just where the money comes from. The business is so dull.”
“13 million gigawatts are at your command. Madame, you have considerably more at your disposal than mere financial assets.”
“Well, perhaps I do. What do you propose? That I turn off the lights? Throughout Alabama?”
“No madame,” Edwin scans the pointless decadence that surrounds him, “From what I have seen there is more than enough darkness in Alabama.”
“What do you mean by that!”
“I mean simply that there is no profit to be made in turning the lights off in Alabama.”
“Well any fool knows that. Why should I pay you to tell me that?” Iphagenia demands. In her mind she has become the very picture of royal wrath. She slobbers as she yells. Edwin is repulsed by the slobber, but unaffected by the wrath.
“Allow me to beg a bit more of your limited patience,” and also limited intelligence and imagination, he thinks Edwin. “Since you are not inclined towards the family business, I will point out that these thin lines represent the transmission network or power grid.”
“I know that. I said it was boring, I did not say I was completely ignorant of it.”
“Yes, and, you know that if you turned off all of your power plants, electricity from the neighboring plants would flow through the grid and pick up the slack. There might be an area of increased dimness towards the middle of the state, but there are so few street lights and reading lamps in that region anyway,” Edwin trails off with a wave of his hand.
“But,” Edwin continues, with an air of growing excitement, “If you turned them off, rotated the phase of the power 180 degrees and then turned them back on again very quickly…”
Iphagenia does not understand. “What?”
“Yes, exactly. What?”
“What? I don’t understand what would happen.”
“Yes, that’s the thing, I’m not sure anyone fully comprehends what would happen. But let me paint you a picture. On the beaches of Southern California, the blenders in smoothie stands would come to a halt. In New York, the lights would go out on Broadway. And everywhere in between, provided that it was night, darkness would fall across the land.”
Iphagenia’s eyes grow wide. Her lust for power, for evil, for wrongdoing is now a raging inferno. She staggers
